


Twice

by heartratemonitor



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Callum as Matchmaker, Casual Sex, Drabble, F/F, Palace Balls, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Slow Dancing, Time Skips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 13:56:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17940995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartratemonitor/pseuds/heartratemonitor
Summary: They meet in an official capacity at a ball, to grease the wheels of treaties. She is as beautiful as a sharp knife held in warning.





	Twice

They meet in an official capacity at a ball, to grease the wheels of treaties. She is as beautiful as a sharp knife held in warning; Amaya watches her with equal parts wariness and curiosity. Weapons left by the coat check, of course, as King Ezran has instructed. This peace is an uneasy one; a freshly minted human archmage is unprecedented in a species the elves once dismissed as good for little else but agrarian settlements. Lacking a sword to hold for security, she settles for patrolling the surrounding area, all too weightless in a dress.

She can’t bear to look at her nephews too long. Ezran is too young to have dark circles, though he’s quickly grown to his father’s height and prominence, like an actor melding into a role. Callum is stern faced and stony eyed; tongue silvering with experience. He’s only reserved soft looks for the elf nowadays- What would their mother say?

(I disagree, but I stand by you anyway.)

The sunfire elf stands alone by the upper perimeter, leaning into the banister with a facade of disinterest while the low reverberation of music blares at their feet. A few aristocrats, plied by libations, dance below. The two meet eyes, and Amaya mentally chides herself for being a hypocrite. The woman gestures with an open palm, not unlike their first meeting. Amaya allows herself a self-conscious laugh, and follows.

According to Callum, this soldier’s name is Janai, and she is unmarried. She does not ask how Callum received this information, nor why he chose to volunteer this to her, specifically. One day, she’ll give him a talking to on the dangers of being indiscreet, but not today.

The two close their distance.

“Last time we met, you tried to kill me,” says the woman, slow and deliberate, though she offers her hand in greeting. 

Amaya shrugs, eyes darting towards the gold gilded nails. She brings warm knuckles to her lips- does this gesture mean something different to elves? Is it more or less intimate? Janai appears to be considering, though her stance softens. They settle by the railing together, watching the intricate and not so intricate spin of silk and finery below. It is going smoother than the general anticipated; almost anticlimactic. Janai parts from her for a few moments before returning with a plate of appetizers, to be shared between them.

“I hate these functions,” the other admits. Amaya nods while deconstructing a vegetable hors d'oeuvre with her nails. “Your oranges are quite nice, though.”

She’s too old for hesitance and too tired of niceties, but there’s nothing else to do short of writing her a note along the lines of, “Sorry I tried to kill you once-” and such things are too forward for a first date.

(Is this a date?)

“You are too tense,” Janai says at last, leaning forward to offer a dance. Right. Elves are not one for beating around the bush, then. 

Amaya takes the offered hand, and feels another grasp her waist; hesitant and nearing tender. She would have given pause had the upper levels not been devoid of guests, but luck chose mercy tonight. They start slowly; she likens it to a fight with different steps and different weapons, but enough time in the military makes everything look like a battle, even things that have no right to be. It’s similar enough, though; the too-warm pulse, the irritating reminders of softness that she does not entirely know what to do with, the fear of yielding.

It’s the yielding that gets awkward. Amaya sighs into the elf’s neck, surprisingly sparse in ornamentation. She’d be wonderful in cold winters- given the choice of starvation and being burned alive in an embrace, the latter seems almost welcoming. The general finds herself held closer as the thump of music slows to a soldier’s steady march. This rhythm, they both know. The beat of the stranger’s heart slows to match hers; Amaya feels herself emptied clean.

“You’re shyer than I was expecting.” 

There is no malice in the elf’s mouth. The general can only laugh, small and silent as fingers find themselves in her hair and hold still. Neither of them are dancing now, all uncertainty and stone in an unplanned embrace. Does this gesture mean something more to elves? Does yielding? Does dancing? Does-

Janai offers her a kiss on the cheek. Polite enough. Not too forward.

In wartime, she’ll hold softness as a distance; something worth protecting, or something best denied. Too close, and a soldier is bound to lose it; to crush it with fumbling fists, or fail to protect it. This event fits neither categories, because Janai is not one easily ruined and neither is she, but without traveled maps as a guideline, Amaya feels worthless in her arms. The elf smiles, as though in mutual acknowledgement of their new burden.

“Thank you for the dance. Feel free to stop by the guest quarters. I’ll be here til morning.”

Amaya considers. 

\--

In the late evening, the general returns with ferocity and brazenness- hunger is a simple language that transcends barriers. They hastily discard silks along with their discretion; Janai shoves her onto the guest bed with her full weight and a faint burn of inhuman fingers against scarred shoulders. They lock mouths. Amaya finds purchase in the curve of her hips as they breach a far more intimate gap, legs tangled in a grind. This much, she can understand.

Amaya hums into the pliant curve of the soldier’s neck, worrying the flesh there. She teases the divot of her collarbone with a scrape of teeth, and Janai responds with twice the insistence. Her lips find Amaya’s forehead; a contrast of gentleness that both grates and weakens. Their hands roam, furious at first, then slowing to a languid exploration.

The kiss is. Well, it is certainly convincing. Almost like a lover’s. 

With the help of deft strokes, she releases into the elf’s hands. Janai smirks, irritatingly charming as she licks the digits clean. Amaya stills too long for her liking, but her companion does not seem to mind, leaving her to run the water by the adjacent room with an invitation to join her by the bath when she’s ready.

They scrub clinically, intimacy slotted into a private corner to be mulled in the other’s absence. Amaya wonders how often she’ll play back this night; in peacetime, in distress; as perfume to mask the irritating stench of dead.

Her goodbye to the elf is a kiss on the wrist. Polite enough. No need to worry about forwardness at this point.

“I’ll see you again,” Janai says, and she believes her.

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure indulgence that I wrote in 2 hours. I apologize if there are any errors. I tried to imply music as vibration instead of sound; hopefully it came across alright. Also I am unsure if it came across in the text that Janai is speaking slowly to facilitate easier lip reading; I'll be sure to fix that in the future.


End file.
